


would you be good enough to take me home?

by BeeLove



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (at least my version of canon where they all Survive and Stay Friends Forever), Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Rescue, Torture, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 15:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: In which Reverend Matthew Mason is staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun, and he's hoping he can hold on long enough for his friends to find him before it goes off.





	would you be good enough to take me home?

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is from "Fuck This Place", by Frightened Rabbit.)

His ribs are aching something fierce, and his face is untidy with a crust of blood. Reverend Matthew Mason opens his eyes into a squint, blinking a few times so his swimming vision can settle. The throbbing in his head is sending tumbles of nausea rolling through his belly. He tries to focus despite the churning agony. The sun is low in the morning sky, but the last thing he can remember is the darkness of night, pin pricked with stars. So he's been missing for eight hours, give or take.

Plenty of time for his friends to notice, Matthew tries weakly to comfort himself. Plenty of time.

Keeping himself still, he tries to take stock of his surroundings and captors – notice without being noticed, as Aloysius would tell him. Who's standing, who's sitting, what are they carrying? Names are important, but not always sought first. All of this, of course, relies upon him not having his swollen face half-buried in the dirt; sharp rocks dig painfully into his cheek and a film of grit coats his tongue. So watching them is out of the equation. But listening isn't.

He tries to keep his breathing even and shallow, so his lungs don't press against his ribs. A few moments pass – a soft, dry wind slips through the campsite, steadying him in his pain. He can smell woodsmoke, and he thinks of Miriam. She would want him to stay calm, to not alert the others of his waking. _Don't give yourself away, Reverend. The less your enemies know of you, the better._

Anchoring himself, Matthew wiggles his fingers where his hands are bound behind his back and listens.

Muffled voices – at least two, maybe more – in a hushed conversation. Hushed so as not to wake him? Or to not wake more of their companions? Unclear. The crunch of earth – not from shifting, but from shuffling feet. Pacing. He can't tell how many steps or if they're one of the talkers. Clayton could, if he were here. Not that he would be.

No one gets the drop on Clayton Sharpe, Matthew ponders with a quiet sweetness. No, he certainly wouldn't have been caught alone, unaware in an unfamiliar town, staring up at the star speckled sky like a damn fool. Mr. Swearingen had sent them to a town three days west of Deadwood – Rose Creek – to keep an eye on one of his many business rivals, while simultaneously investigating a possible mining venture.

They'd arrived early in the evening yesterday, and the others had claimed a table inside the inn, taking full advantage of the establishment's bar. He had sought refuge outside, Matthew remembers, lingering on the porch and leaning on the wood railing. The yellow light from the lamps inside spilled across the warped, wood planks while he stood, stupidly alone, in the fresh breeze of the night.

No one else would have been so foolish. He just hopes the others aren't angry – he hopes Clayton hasn't completely obliterated the small town in his rage. Though, Matthew can't help the private smile at the thought. Clayton does have a very specific way of showing he cares.

Very suddenly, there is a boot jammed against his spine, and he stiffens, inhaling loudly through his teeth.

How could he have been so foolish?

“Yeah Roscoe – the bastard's awake.”

Roscoe. That's one.

\- - -

Two of them – the one who jabbed him in the back and one of his buddies – haul him to his feet, heedless of the stabbing pain lancing through his side. They drag him the few yards to their dwindling campfire, as he stumbles under their grip, and dump him once more on the ground. His breath catches sharp in the back of his throat, and his shoulders scream, burning as he goes down hard.  
  
The third – and final – man scowls at him and crouches down low to eye level. Matthew meets his unflinching gaze and arches one brow, thinking of Arabella and her disapproving stares. She can say so much in one downward glance – send even the surliest of drunks stumbling back a few paces. He channels that haughty, put upon exasperation, though he's not sure it's effective.

“All right,” the third man drawls, “Franklin, get 'im up.”

Franklin. That's two.

Three tries for Franklin to jerk him to his feet – Matthew sags, pulling all his weight forward, just to make it difficult. He's pretty sure Franklin isn't the one who planted his boot in his back, but he isn't completely sure. What he does know is that Franklin isn't pleased, judging by the fist he sinks into his stomach. Matthew loses all his breath, and he's unprepared when the third man punches him square in the mouth. He's wearing rings, just to be cruel, and Matthew feels his lip split open.

'Oh what a mess,' he thinks to himself, as blood slicks down his chin to drip on his collar. 'What a mess I've made.'

He's prepared for the second punch, though it sends him lurching from Franklin's grasp as his shirt tears. He doesn't fancy the time it will take to mend it, for he isn't the best at needlework. (And he knows better than to ask Miriam or Arabella. Maybe Aloysius will be kind enough to assist him.) There's a pause where he can gasp heavy gulps of air, though it hurts and he feels like his lungs are collapsing on themselves.

Then the kicking starts.

All three of them set to work on him, easily finding the bruises on his ribs and adding more. Breathing becomes difficult and his insides seize. He chokes up red, hoping that he's just bitten his tongue or the inside of his cheek. Distantly, through the pounding of his head and the fire in his chest, Matthew prays.

“...for He burns fucking serpents with fire.”

\- - -

When he comes to, the sun is higher in the sky – just past noon, though he's not sure by how much. Another eight or nine hours on the time line, then. He licks his cracked, abused lips, suddenly aware of how long it's been since he's had anything to drink.

“Yer lookin' mighty parched, Padre.” Franklin sprawls on the ground in front of him, squinting against the sun and digging the fingers of one hand into the rust soaked dirt. “Here,” he shakes a canteen in Matthew's face, “it's just water. Yer gonna need it.”

Ominous.

Franklin rolls to his knees and balances on one hand as he tips some water in his mouth. Matthew tries not to gag – the water is clean, if not warm and slightly stale. But it helps; he feels a fraction more settled, even if his hands have gone numb behind his back and his gums are still tacky with blood. It also gives him the chance to study one of his captors.

Cropped short reddish brown hair, unwashed but not yet filthy. Impressive sideburns. No beard or mustache, but there is stubble. He also has a long scar curving from his temple to under his jaw. His eyes are like flecks of sea glass – blue green and hazy.

Matthew frowns, furrowing his brow, as recognition slowly slips into focus. Franklin was there the previous night. Came up to him on the porch. Said something – Matthew can't fully recall, the words jumble into meaningless sound, as he remembers the thunderous crack of pain against the back of his head.

Franklin smiles – a macabre twist of his mouth that is anything but kind – as he tucks the canteen back into his rucksack. Matthew can only see three such traveling packs, meaning no one else will be joining in on the bone shattering fun. Small favors from his merciful Lord.

“Now listen here,” Franklin sits back on his haunches. “We just have a few questions for ya.” He sucks noisily on his teeth, and Matthew can't hold back a shudder. “Our boss is mighty interested in you and yer crew – all ya gotta do is tell us what we wanna know. Then we'll send you on yer way. Easy as that.” He glances up, past Matthew's shoulder, no doubt sharing a joke with the others as he winks.

Digging his boots into the earth, Matthew focuses on the sound of leather scraping against dirt and dead leaves. Nausea presses up against his belly – a heavy, sickening weight under his skin – and he finds himself thankful that he's only had a few sips of water since sundown last night. Even so, hunger tears at his insides, leaving him lightheaded beneath the agony raging in his skull. The sunlight is equally loud, digging into the tender skin of his eyelids without mercy.

“C'mon Padre,” Franklin nudges him, not gently, with his foot. “What's yer answer?”

Matthew thinks of Arabella, who refuses to take long trips without a least a small cache of books and personal diaries – many written in a code that no one else can untangle. He thinks of how her stern mouth pinches at the corners whenever she's fixin' to deliver a well deserved lashing to an unsuspecting victim. He thinks of her face flushed red as her copper hair as she laughs, leaning into Miriam so their ear baubles knock into each other.

He thinks of glittering, dancing joy in the flickering candle light.

Matthew thinks of Aloysius, who has not surrendered his steadfast love for Annabelle – even slips her extra gold so she doesn't have to work when she doesn't want to. He thinks of how his fingers drum constantly on any surface – bar top or horse saddle – with nerves that he can't contain. He thinks of his eyes, warm and bright, as he teases each of them in turn – drawing laughter from even Clayton, a feat he will never cease to be proud of.

He thinks of snickering, amber mirth in the swelling lamp light.

Matthew thinks of Miriam, who insists on good lodging whenever they find themselves in a new town, always under the guise of catering to her delicate sensibilities – even though she just wants them safe. He thinks of the tilting of her head, curls falling across her clever eyes, as she sizes up her next mark. He thinks of how she touches them, intentionally or unknowingly, as she rests her impeccably manicured hand on a wrist or elbow or shoulder, both seeking and giving comfort.

He thinks of smoldering, clever kindness in the swaying fire light.

Finally, though his heart stutters with the ache of it, Matthew thinks of Clayton. How he still slinks behind the group, keeping guard on all of them. How he offers an elbow to escort the ladies, not that they need it (they'll indulge him with varying degrees of amusement). How he tips his head back when he laughs – truly, wholly (holy) laughs – though he covers his mouth with a gloved hand. How he and Aloysius can win any card game, working together to fleece any table in any saloon. How sometimes, when he feels tender, he'll reach for Matthew – snag the edge of his sleeve and slip their hands together so their fingers lock. How they'll lie together, how they'll hold each other close, how he'll hum softly under his breath as he traces shivery paths along Matthew's spine with just his fingertips.

He thinks of fragile, whispering love in the inky dark.

Matthew thinks of that – of his friends' laughing and scheming, of Clayton's quiet, hoarse singing – as Franklin kicks at him one more time.

“Padre?”

Oh, may the Lord forgive him.

Matthew breathes deep, burying the agony, and rasps, “go fuck yourself.”

Franklin chuckles, low and mean, and slowly hoists himself up. “Suit yerself – Martens! Get the rope ready!”

Martens. That's three.

\- - -

Four small roadrunners pick their way across the parched land. He watches as they pause to pick at a lizard or bug, their tufted heads twitching with nerves. Eventually, they tuck their wings close to their little bodies and take off, kicking up bits of rock as they go. He tracks their zigzagging journey until they're just black dots on the horizon. He prays for them, hoping that their quartet can get by. Can survive. He hopes it's enough. _May the Lord keep you safe, friends._

Roscoe, Franklin, and Martens are ready for him – it took them some time to find a sturdy enough tree with branches hearty enough to hold his weight. They've swung the rope over the thickest branch and tied a noose at one end. It sways gently in the faint wind.

Quaint.

Roscoe and Martens – he isn't sure which is which – jerk him to his feet and drag him over to the tree, where Franklin waits. He doesn't have it in him to fight – too exhausted, too swollen, and just a little delirious – though he can't manage to stay steady without listing slightly to one side.

Franklin grabs him roughly by his shoulders and leans close, his sea glass eyes gleaming with savage delight. “Here's how the game's gonna work,” he explains as Roscoe or Martens – one of them – loops the noose around his neck. “We're gonna ask some questions – now, we're givin' ya an honest chance. And if you squander it, if ya don't answer, then yer gonna dangle for a bit. Then we'll try again. We're being nice here, Padre. Don't make us regret it.”

Matthew tips his head back, peers up at the unending blue of the sky. No clouds, just a faint breeze skittering through the branches of his hanging tree. The rope around his neck pulls as Roscoe and Martens get into position; he takes a few steps back, trying to find some slack, but there's none.

Franklin rubs his hands together, waggling his eyebrows with unrestrained glee. “All right – first question. Why did that bastard Swearingen send you and yer crew to our town?”

Now, Matthew doesn't think of himself as brave. He knows that logically, of the five of them, his is the weakest nerve. The others tease him about it – the guileless preacher, lost among the devils and sinners of the world. Even so, he rolls his shoulders (much as he can, what with his hands trapped behind his back) and keeps his silence.

“Playin' that way?” Franklin cocks his head, his voice pitched sing song and shrill with faux surprise. He lifts one finger, and Matthew feels the rope tug, pressing harshly against the underside of his jaw. It burns, and he tries to calm his breathing as the rope jerks him to the tips of his toes. Instinctively, his fingers seize into claws, and his spine tightens. It only lasts for a few moments, and the rope relaxes – he drops back to his heels, blinking the tears from his eyes.

“That was just a taste. Keep fuckin' with us, and yer gonna find it mighty hard to breathe.” Matthew says nothing and tries to swallow around the fire in his throat. “So let's try again,” Franklin glances past him to smirk at Roscoe and Martens. “Why did that cheatin' motherfucker Swearingen send you and yer crew to our town?”

The rope pulls again – a burning line around his neck – and it jerks unsteadily as the men lose their grip. They raise him higher this time, and he gags, lungs spasming. The roughness of the rope bites into the soft underside of his chin. He tries to breathe but only manages to choke in short, choppy exhales. They leave him there, his feet twitching, for a solid fifteen seconds. Black static scratches across his eyes, and he hears Franklin shout something to the others. He hits the ground hard; his knees give out, and he falls forward with a gasping wheeze. Blood drips down his fingers from the furrows cut by the binds around his wrists. 

Franklin kneels next to him, places a hand on his shoulder like he cares, and leans close to his ear. “I don't know how much more of this you can take, truth be told. Just tell us what we wanna know, and you'll be on yer way.” He doesn't reply, just tries to find some semblance of peace in the metal bands clamped around his lungs. Everything hurts, and he just wants to sleep. 

“All right, then, up you get.” Franklin grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him to his feet. He doesn't even ask – just raises an eyebrow – but Matthew doesn't respond. Franklin tilts his head, as if to say 'well, okay, then,' and motions lazily with his hand.

Matthew meant to count the seconds, but he finds himself thinking of Clayton – of the first time they kissed. It was late in the day – they had just returned to town after yet another eccentric errand for Swearingen. Bright, fiery slices of orange cut through the sky, and Matthew had been standing on the steps of his church. He had been bidding Clayton farewell for the evening; the others had already split, and it was just the two of them. The setting sunlight caught in Clayton's quiet, green-blue eyes, and he remembers waiting there on the steps, hoping ardently that Clayton would do something. He remembers how Clayton took one, steadying breath before surging forward to press their mouths together.

It was only a few seconds, and Clayton had fled almost immediately, his cheeks dusted an uncharacteristic pink.

With an almighty thud, Matthew drops, bone wracked with anguished tremors. He watches through slitted eyes as Franklin's cracked, dusty boots shuffle into view. He nudges him in the sternum, and Matthew whines. His neck is a tapestry of swollen welts and red-brown bruises. Franklin makes a tutting sound, almost sympathetic but mostly amused. He once again gets Matthew on his feet, “I'm getting real tired of this bullshit. Ain't you tired, Padre?” Matthew tries to blink the sweat from his eyes and his chin falls forward. His head immediately snaps back as the rope hoists him up.

He doesn't want to be here – doesn't want to be in his body when it dies – so he lets himself go to Clayton. To all the times they kissed after that first time on the church steps. A kiss on the cheek before they mounted their horses for a long journey. Desperate, sucking kisses on the side of his neck as Clayton pressed him up against the wall of their darkened bedroom. Wet, molten kisses as Clayton laced their fingers together and pinned his hands on either side of his head as he moved, hips rolling, above him. Soft, quiet kisses in the bleak light of morning in their modest kitchen.

He resists the black spots blooming in his eyes, fighting hard to stay in his memories with Clayton – his heart, his hope, his sanctuary.

_Don't let me go, Mr. Sharpe, let me stay with you._

He thinks of Clayton cupping his face, rubbing his scarred cheek with one calloused thumb, as his stare goes liquid hot with promise.

_Let me stay with you._

The branch snaps. Matthew falls.

\- - -

When he comes to, the sun is disappearing behind the western hills; he's shivering in the early evening chill. The cold settles in the dips of his elbows and the hollows behind his knees, seeps deep into his bones, aided by the sweat soaking his clothes. He's been gone for just under twenty-four hours. Where are they? He refuses to think about what could be stopping them.

There's a fire flickering behind him, making his shadow shift, ghostly and eerie. In a dizzying replay of the morning, he can hear the voices of his captors engaged in a mumbling conversation. He doesn't even try to listen, instead focusing on breathing through the suffocating agony in his skull. His stomach lurches, clenching with hunger and nausea.

But he isn't dead, so there is that.

He must make a noise – a groan or a whimper, some kind of pitiful sound – because there's a scuffling behind him. Rocks crunch as footsteps draw near and there is, once again, a boot jammed in his back. It's Franklin this time, and he leans over his prone, beaten body. Matthew doesn't even try to talk, unsure if he even can, as he glares up at his chief abuser.

“Still got some fight in ya, huh?” He smiles, cruel and unsettling in the unsteady firelight. “Let's see what we can do about that – Roscoe, get yer knife.” Franklin drags him closer to the campfire; the heat washes over him, though it isn't comforting or kind.

Roscoe – judging by the knife in his hand – is standing, while Martens sits on a partially rotted, tipped over tree trunk. Now that he finally knows which is which, Matthew studies them. Roscoe has dark hair, hanging limply past his ears; Martens has a mustache, trimmed with surprising neatness. Both of them look entirely too amused for his liking and a shiver of fear skitters up the notches of his spine. Franklin jerks his chin and Roscoe shuffles up behind him, reaching for his hands. Matthew tries to twist away, but Franklin has a tight grip on him.

“Calm yerself – where do you think yer gonna get to?” He laughs and Matthew feels Roscoe hacking inelegantly at the rope around his wrists. The blade isn't sharp – Aloysius definitely tends to his daggers with a much closer eye – and it slips, biting at his hands until his skin is slick with blood.

By the time his hands are free, the dirt around them is splattered and speckled liberally with blood. Franklin jerks his chin again, and Roscoe shoves him until he's huddled in front of the log, the fire on his left, casting shadows across his scarred cheek. Franklin kicks him hard in the back so he pitches forward, catching himself with his right hand on the rough wood of the tree trunk. A foolish mistake, he realizes, when Martens lunges forward to hold his hand in place.

“I think you can see where this is goin' – answer a question of ours, or we take somethin' of yers.” Franklin shifts to stand between him and the fire until he's just a blacked out silhouette. His teeth glint with the glow of the fire behind him.

Swearingen's men had warned them about being out in the wild at night – had warned them about the monsters lurking in the night.

“Tell us,” Franklin says slowly as Roscoe hunches on the other side of the log. Martens shuffles around, kneeling in the dirt beside Matthew, so he has him pinned in place. “Why did that piece of shit Swearingen send you and yer crew to our idyllic little town?” The question is barely out of his mouth before Roscoe has a solid grip on his wrist. A few seconds of silence pass with the mournful whistling of the wind; Matthew thinks he sees something moving out there in the shadows beyond the camp, but it's just the sweat in his eyes. “All right, Roscoe,” Franklin sighs, “get to it – just the pinky though.”

Matthew panics – he doesn't mean to, but he's scared and tired and hurting – and he thrashes against the two men bracketing him, and Roscoe starts sawing. There is no skill, no elegance, as he carves messily at skin and bone. Franklin rests his hands on his hips, silent. The whole camp is silent, save for the wet, snarling sound of blade on flesh.

Screaming starts from somewhere out in the hills – a poor, desert critter succumbs to the jaws of a predator deep in the dark. It's a pathetic, shrieking call of desperation, reeking of fear. A keening scream of a death rattle. It's him, he realizes – he's become a quaking, feral creature, crying and snarling and bucking against the violence holding him hostage.

He has found the monsters lurking in the dark – he has met them where they stalk and prowl – and they are wearing the skins of men.

A single gunshot cracks through the night and Martens slumps to one side, his head cracked dynamite open. Roscoe's eyes go wide, and he raises his hands, losing his knife in the process. Two more shots thunder through the campsite, and he drops, chest suddenly full of lead. Franklin stumbles, cursing loudly as he goes for his own gun, holstered at his hip. He doesn't get far before a shot pierces his shoulder. He turns, fleeing into the dark.

Matthew opens his eyes – unsure of when he shut them – but he can't bring himself to look at the gore masquerading as his hand. Instead, he lifts his bleary gaze to the scene in front of him. Miriam and Arabella stand just on the edge of the firelight, guns held steady and high – aimed at the empty space where Roscoe was kneeling. He can see Aloysius jogging toward them, rifle slung over his shoulder. They converge on him – the ladies holster their guns – and he sags with relief, slumping into their arms. Miriam cups his face in her cool hands, peering close at his face, as Arabella and Aloysius look over his injuries.

“Oh Reverend,” she croons, as she soothes his cheeks. Her mouth is just a little too crowded with razor, pointed teeth; the clever flames of the fire glint off the serrated tips of her frown. She licks her lips nervously, and the fangs disappear in a shaky smile. “I'm sorry we're late, honey.”

Arabella's worried face swims into view; she holds up one finger in front of his face. “Follow my finger, Reverend.” Her perfectly manicured nails have grown long and sharp – nonetheless, he tracks her finger from left to right. She nods, shaking the nerves out of her hands, and her nails are rounded and dull.

More gun shots tear through the night – a sharp staccato – followed by high pitched yowling, and Aloysius glances off towards the western hills. His eyes catch and hold the campfire light – a glowing, focused gold, even when he looks away from the twitching, amber flames. He squints into the distance and blinks once, the spark extinguished.

Aloysius ducks his head back down as he and Arabella study the carnage of his right hand; Roscoe hadn't been able to finish the deed, and his dull knife had left the pinky brutalized but still attached. They communicate without words, and Miriam gently turns his head away.

“Don't look, honey. Mr. Sharpe!” She calls out, punctuated by yet another gun shot and more frantic screaming. “Finish playing with your food and get your ass over here. We need you!” One more gun shot and then silence. Clayton strides into the camp. He holsters his weapons, wiping his eyes on his sleeve before rushing to kneel in front of him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, palming Matthew's face and pressing their foreheads together. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Miriam has a hand on each of their backs, a sad smile on her face.

“Reverend,” she glances at Arabella, who shakes her head in dismay. “We can't save your finger, but we can make it so it stops hurting. Mr. Fogg?” He meets her honest stare with a resolute nod. “Mr. Fogg will take care of it, you don't need to worry yourself anymore.”

“I'll handle it, Reverend,” he rasps, viciously sharp knife in his hand. “You're gonna be just fine.”

Clayton wraps his arms around Matthew's shoulders, letting him hide in his pristine waistcoat. His free hand grips the back of Clayton's coat as he buries his face in the warm, smoky scent of home.

“It's okay, Matty, I'm here now,” he whispers, dropping a kiss to his sweat soaked hair. “I'm not leaving you.” Matthew pulls him closer, squeezing his eyes shut.

Aloysius starts cutting.

\- - -

When he comes to, he's lying in a soft, clean bed; faint, early morning light fills what he assumes is a hotel room. He smells something fresh and herbal and, when he raises his left hand to paw at his neck, he encounters a thick wrap of cotton. Thank the Lord for Arabella Whitlock and her botany texts.

Even though he understands, logically, that the bandages around his neck are there to help him, Matthew can't fight the panic slithering up his throat. It's too tight, he thinks, it's too tight and he can't breathe. He pulls at the bandages, but they won't come loose. He can't breathe. He's never going to breathe again. He's dying, he's dying, he's dying –

“Shh, peace Matty, you're safe.” One hand presses gingerly on his chest, taking great care to avoid the purple and black bruises splashed across his body. Another hand gently untangles his grip on the cotton around his neck. “I'm right here – you're safe, darlin'.”

Matthew freezes – he recognizes those hands, their callouses and caresses – and feels his eyes open, heart slamming against his ribs. Clayton leans over him, his tired face pinched with worry. “You're here,” he croaks, wondrous and grateful.

“Don't speak,” Clayton pushes off the bed and crosses the room to pour a glass of water from a pitcher on the dresser. “Don't strain yourself.”

“You came for me,” he whispers, ignoring Clayton's warning. “Clay – you came for me.”

With a sigh, Clayton places the glass of water on the small bedside table. He helps Matthew sit up, one arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders as they rearrange the slightly flattened pillows. Once he's settled, Clayton lifts the glass to his mouth for a few sips of water.

His stomach churns, and he winces at the bone deep throbbing of his ribs. He raises a hand to press against the pain and stills when he sees the swathes of bandages wrapped around his right hand. Shaking, Matthew turns to look at Clayton, who slowly lowers himself to perch on the bed.

“Clay,” he whispers, “what happened to my hand?”

Clayton tilts his head as his eyes go soft and tragic. “The men who took you,” he explains in a low voice, reaching across to him to grab his free hand. Their fingers link and lock, but Matthew's anxieties don't recede. “They hurt you – they cut on you. But they did a shit job of it.” He looks away, something furious and grieving caught in his throat. “We had to finish,” the words catch and shatter in his mouth as he glares out the window. “We had to finish what they started. But Aloysius did a clean job – and Arabella made sure you're going to heal properly.”

He stares down at the massive wad of cotton at the end of his arm – he can vaguely recall the vicious gnashing of a knife in his skin, chewing and scraping against bone. “Did they take my hand?” Matthew asks, empty and brittle, as Clayton closes his eyes and presses his forehead against his arm. “Is it gone? Clayton, you have to tell me – did they take my fucking hand?” His voice claws against the brutalized inside of his throat, and he finds himself screaming. “What did they take!?”

Clayton reaches for him, gripping both his shoulders – Matthew grabs at him, wrapping his arms around his trim waist, as he once again hides his face in his shirt. The buttons press into the soft skin of his cheek, and Clayton buries his fingers in his short, dark hard.

“It was your finger,” he whispers, scratching carefully at Matthew's scalp with his nails. “They took one of your fingers, Matty.”

\- - -

Matthew doesn't remember falling asleep, though he wakes up to Clayton gently smoothing over his hair. He's still propped up against the headboard, a modest pile of pillows holding him steady. Clayton has slid up onto the bed with him, claiming a small slip of mattress; he's done his best to keep some space between their bodies, like he doesn't want to disturb him.

“Clayton,” he groans, and the hand in his hair stills. “C'mere, I want you close to me. You're too far away.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Clayton mutters in response as his hand resumes the idle, thoughtless caress. “Don't stress yourself – I'm serious,” he admonishes as Matthew smiles.

“Nothing stressful about being with you, Mr. Sharpe,” he retorts, and Clayton huffs out a laugh. Despite his halfhearted protests, he scoots closer; the bed dips as he moves to press their legs together. “Thank you,” Matthew mumbles, suddenly shy.

“Of course, Reverend,” Clayton drops a kiss to his hairline, slipping their fingers together. He presses a kiss to the back of Matthew's hand for good measure, studying the interlocking weave of their knuckles. “Your hands aren't as soft anymore,” he observes, simultaneously proud and disappointed.

“Flatterer,” Matthew snipes without heat. “And here I thought you'd be impressed with my new found capabilities.” He pauses, flushing with humiliation. “Yesterday's proceedings notwithstanding – I am sorry that you and the others had to come to my rescue, yet again. It's never my intention to be a burden.” His words trail off to a self conscious mumble, all to aware of how his companions see him and his well intentioned bumbling.

“Nothing burdensome about you, Reverend Mason,” Clayton contradicts, “I just worry about the toll this life is going to take on you.”

“You don't need to worry about me,” he assures, trying not to sound petulant, as he tips his head back. Clayton hums, stretching to nuzzle at the suddenly available skin of his neck.

“Not possible,” his voice is a rumble that Matthew feels more than hears. “I was well prepared to tear this place apart for you.” Matthew blinks against the sudden tenderness burning behind his eyes; Clayton doesn't elaborate – he isn't one to expand his thoughts, unless he's pressed, and Matthew isn't going to press. Silence descends on the room, chasing the dust in the slats of sunlight and filling in the cracks of the wood floor. His eyes slip shut, and it becomes difficult to rationalize keeping them open.

Quietly, Clayton starts to hum.

_Don't let me go, Mr. Sharpe_, Matthew thinks as he drifts off. _Let me stay with you._

**Author's Note:**

> (Song lyrics for a title? In my fanfic? It's more likely than you think!)
> 
> This was written after episode one, and I haven't watched episode two yet. So who knows how that might change things! The town Rose Creek is from Magnificent Seven -- thought that would be a neat little reference.  
Thanks for reading -- comments are always appreciated. :]


End file.
